


This Time Chapter 1

by nightrose



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-06-11
Updated: 2009-06-11
Packaged: 2017-10-21 14:47:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,737
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/226379
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nightrose/pseuds/nightrose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>This Time</p>
    </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This Time

This Time

Author: nightrose_spn

Pairing: Sam/Dean

Rating: R

Warnings: Violence, Language, Sex, Incest, Rape

Genre: Romance/Angst

Summary: When his deal comes due, no one comes to drag Dean to Hell. The devil is found inside himself.

Author's Notes: Inspired by the alternate ending version of herebutnotremembered's _This Time._ Go. Watch. Now. Reviews are love and win.

They go to sleep that night. What else is there to do? It's not like they can just stop. Not like their life will just go away. Even though it's the anti-climax to end all anti-climaxes. Because Dean's supposed to be dead. His deal came due, but he isn't gone.

Bizarre. But Sam knows better than to ask too many questions. Good things never happen without a price, but he'll take what he can get. Every day he has Dean next to him is a good day.

No matter what.

He wakes up the next morning, half-expecting his brother to have disappeared. Dean smiles. "Good mornin', Princess!"

Sam bites his lip and throws his arms around Dean in a crushing embrace. As Dean's ribs practically crack under the pressure, he pets his baby brother's hair and presses a kiss to his forehead. "Dean. God, Dean!"

"Hey. You really think some hell bitch was going to get me that easy? I don't leave you, Sammy. You should know that." And the words are joking, teasing, but the meaning is sincere. Sam thinks Dean may finally be getting it. That there's nothing worse than losing Dean. Not death. Not hell. Not anything.

"We need to figure out how," Sam says over breakfast. Dean shrugs.

"Why? Why count our blessings, dude?"

And Sam finds himself agreeing. "Okay. Okay."

They spend the days tangled up in each other. The dance of hands and arms and legs and hips is just as desperate as it was before, when they were helplessly watching the days count down. The gentleness is gone, though. When Sam tries to trace his brother's face, to gently kiss down his body, to adore him in the little time they may have left, Dean pushes him away, pushes into him, kisses him with teeth and _want._

Three weeks later, Bobby calls. Only when they're starting dinner and Dean screams, dropping the silver fork the instant it touches his skin, does Sam realize it may not be Dean.

He isn't possessed. He'd walked through salt lines and pentacles, no problem. But he can't touch the silver. And he isn't wearing his ring, either.

But when Bobby starts throwing around words like "shapeshifter" and "silver knife," Sam puts his foot down.

Dean is still _Dean._ Hasn't changed. Hasn't hurt anyone. If Sam gets his brother back, he won't look a gift horse in the mouth. They have to leave, then. Sam won't stay anywhere Dean isn't welcome.

And Bobby doesn't want the supernatural in his house.

Two weeks later. They're in bed, as usual. Another day of research, of next-to-nothing. Sam reaches out for his brother, craving the comfort of his touch, the realization that he's solid and real and alive more than anything else.

And there's a split-second of unadulterated fear and disgust in Dean's eyes, before he melts into Sam's arms. When Sam asks, Dean won't explain it. But he won't deny the moment, either.

It takes a few days, of constant kisses and touches. Sam doesn't try to make love to his brother, just holds him close. Dean's here, Dean's real, Dean isn't dead, he tells himself again and again, and it's better than any sex ever could be.

But then he finally gets Dean to tell him. Where the fear in his eyes was coming from.

He has the second's broken wish Dean had just kept it a secret.

His voice is careful, gentle, as he confesses, "Sammy, I guess I don't' really know how to put this. Uh, don't get the wrong idea, man. It's just… you know, when we started… this? I told you… You told me you had to leave because you wanted me. And I didn't want you to leave."

"So all these years…" Sam feels like he's choking on his own tongue, his own breath.

"Hey, it's no big deal, Sammy. I love you." Dean's fake smile, the one that's just a twitch of his lips, flashes across his face.

Sam can't meet his eyes. "God, I'm so sorry."

"Knew you would make a big deal out of this, dude. It's really nothing." And Dean pulls Sam into his arms. "You get me, I get regular tail, everyone's happy."

He lets himself relax in his brother's familiar embrace. But when Dean tries to slip off his shirt, Sam won't let him.

Five weeks before he doesn't have that option anymore. But there's another tragedy in between. A week later, when Dean wants to go on a hunt.

"You're not ready," Sam insists. Dean takes offense. He's not an invalid, just really fucking lucky, escaping the devil for some mysterious reason. He's a grown man.

It turns into an argument, then a fight. Then Sam is being slammed against the wall. Dean's hands are at his throat, his whole body pressing Sam down and in. They've fought before, hell, Dean's hit him plenty of times, but never like this. The physical movement isn't very different. It's hard to define, but this is threatening, this is scary. There's something in his eyes. Not a flash of yellow or black. Something far worse.

Dean pulls Sam's body away, then slams him back against the wall. While Sam leans back limply, trying to recover, Dean cocks his fist and punches Sam hard in the jaw.

"Dean! Okay, stop! Hey, I'm sorry!" Sam pleads. He did go too far, that's fine. Dean always stops when Sam asks, no matter how mad he is.

"Shut _up,_ " Dean hisses.

"Dean! What're you…"

A vicious knee to Sam's ribs punctuates every word. "I. Told. You. To. Shut. Up."

Sam falls silent and drops his head. Dean hits him one more time, then lets him fall to the floor.

Two weeks later, when it's happening on a daily basis, Bobby drops by.

"He's possessed, ya idjit."

But Sam shakes his head. "Dean always had a temper. And after what…" He won't explain it, though. Won't tell Bobby what he did to Dean. How he tricked, forced, _raped_ his big brother without even knowing what he was doing. Bobby doesn't even know what they do behind closed doors. Let alone the horrible things…

"He's trying to make you blame yourself," Bobby says quietly. "Sam, it's a damn textbook case of abuse. Difference is, this ain't your brother. Dean ain't what's hittin' you, boy. It's his meatsuit, or maybe a shifter wearin' his face. But Dean wouldn't never hurt you like that. You know that as well as I do."

"If you knew what I'd done to him…" Sam chokes on the words, the memory. And Dean said it was no big deal. Forgave him, for all these years of hurting him.

"You talkin' about fuckin' him? Cause from where I stand, looks like that was pretty damn mutual."

Sam can't breathe. "How long…"

"I've known since your brother came cryin' to me for advice. When he was fifteen damn years old. 'Bobby, I don't know who else to come to. I don't know what to do. I'm a horrible person. I… I think… I think I'm in love with Sammy.'"

His impression of Dean's voice is spot-on. It makes Sam wince.

"Like I said. That ain't Dean. Boy loves you more than his own life, I know that. He'd die in hell a hundred times before he'd raise his hand to you."

Sam clears his throat. "Leave, Bobby."

"Damn it, Sam…"

"Out."

Bobby goes.

Sam hasn't laid a finger on Dean in weeks. Won't do that to him again. The desire drove him crazy at first. Now he isn't sure he wants to. With the constant layer of bruises on his skin, he's afraid even the gentlest lovemaking would hurt.

Dean doesn't give him a choice. Three weeks after Bobby leaves, Dean throws him, not to the ground, but to the bed.

"Dean? What're you…"

"Didn't I tell you I don't want to hear your whining, bitch?" Sam closes his eyes, and Dean kicks his shin viciously. "Look at me! Look at me!"

Sam obeys in perfect terror. He watches, an impartial observer, as his brother tears off his own clothes and Sam's, biting down hard on Sam's lips in a vicious mockery of a kiss. "So quiet, like a good little whore," he murmurs. "I'll tell you, because of that. Tell you what I'm sure you want to know." Dean laughs. "See, you wanted to be my bitch. Begged me for it. Wouldn't let me say no. And now I'm gonna do the exact same thing to you, baby brother. I'm gonna take you, whether you like it or not."

Sam doesn't bother to plead, to even say 'no'. He just lies there, and watches, watches, while Dean shoves two spat-on fingers up him. Watches as his nipples are twisted and his face slapped, his hair pulled, his back scratched by rough nails. Watches the man he loves… rape him.

But Sam knows he deserves it. He's done the same thing to Dean, time and time again.

Dean comes quickly, leaves Sam on the bed, sobbing silently. Dean told him to be quiet.

The days are the same, after that. People look at Sam. Sam says 'no' to Dean in some tiny way. Sam looks at his brother funny. Sam trips and falls.

And any, all of those things can make Dean furious. Can and do. Dean beats him, rapes him, calls him vile names. But that's not the worst.

The worst are the good days. When Dean holds him, kisses him, caresses every scar and bruise. Pushes inside soft and gentle, says, "I love you, Sammy. You know that, right? I love you. I'm so sorry I have to do this to you, baby. If you only hadn't made me, made me do this with you, then I wouldn't have to punish you for it now. But you're my brother, my whole life. It's my job to take care of you. Even if it means I have to hurt you sometimes."

Sam can't reply to that. After all, Dean told him to be quiet.

Once, Dean beats him so badly he has to go to the hospital. He stands there, stripping off the gown, naked in front of a mirror, and itemizes his wounds. There's a black eye, a large purple mark down the side of his face, a swollen redness on his cheek. His lip is split and his neck bruised. There is a cut on his nose. There are bruises all up and down his ribcage, his arms mottled with Dean's handprints and shallow slices from his knife.

Sam remembers it in aching clarity. "I'm sorry, Sammy," he'd begun. "I hate having to do this. I'll try to be fast." And Sam had bowed his head and waited, as Dean threw him to the floor, hit him across the face again and again, choked him against the ground until he was still.

He doesn't remember until that, nothing except the white-washed room. Bobby comes, ties Dean to a chair above Sam's protests. Sam waits there, just out of reach, humming a childhood lullaby to drown out Dean's curses and insults.

The day after that, Dean comes back from hell. It isn't easy for him to convince Bobby to let him in the house. Sam falls to the floor during the fight. Watches as the Dean who's been tormenting him for months laughs and goes for his gun. Watches the other brother, the one with the handprint showing from beneath where the first had ripped his shirt, cringe against the wall. "Kill me if you want," Dean says, "But if you hurt Sam again, I will _haunt_ your ass."

It's dead serious. Not even a hint of a tease, a joke, though the words sound almost like Dean's sense of humor.

And that's when Sam reaches up a hand and whacks at the first Dean's leg. He tumbles to the floor, looses his balance so that the one pinned against the wall can stab him.

For a second, they stand there, watching the body on the floor. And then Dean (this is Dean, real Dean) pulls Sam against his chest in a firm, careful hug. "Sammy," he whispers against his brother's hair. "God, Sammy."

Sam doesn't answer.

Three days before he says a word to his brother. Three days of Dean murmuring gentle words to him, holding him close. Dean finally asks him. "Sammy, please. Say something. Fuck, anything. Tell me you hate me, tell me you'll never forgive me, tell me to go away."

He traces the horrific bruises on his brother's swollen face, kisses the cut between his eyes. "Please, Sammy."

"Dean. Dean, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry," Sam whispers, curling to Dean, letting his brother stroke his trembling body.

Dean doesn't ask what's wrong, what that monster with his face told Sam in those months. Four months Dean thought he was in hell.

Didn't know that the real horror was what was happening here, on Earth, where his body was destroying his baby brother, the love of his life, his sweet Sam.

Only four months and Sam can't even talk to him. Four months of unimaginable horror, of torment bad enough to erase a lifetime of Dean's care and love with fear.

Bobby shows up on the fifth day. And draws a knife right away. "I've had enough of this," he growls. "Don't care what the damn fool wants. I'm not lettin' you hurt Sam anymore."

"Bobby!" But the man ignores Sam, grabs Dean by his collar, draws back the knife.

Dean takes Bobby's knife in a basic disarm. Bobby looks at him as a son, he's distracted enough that the simple move works. "It's me. I'm not a shifter, or a demon, damnit, it's me!" He holds up the hand with the ring, keeping Bobby pinned against the wall with his body. "This is silver, you know that. Besides…" he draws the knife carefully, makes a shallow cut in the flesh of his upper arm as Sam whimpers desperately on the bed, "Would I be able to do this? With a silver knife?"

Bobby says, quietly, "Then let go of me, ya idjit." Dean does, hands him back his knife. Bobby tucks it into his back pocket, thanks him quietly, and lets Dean step back to the bed and pull his trembling brother into an embrace. "You really… you, again? How the hell'd you get out of hell?"  
"I don't know," Dean confesses. "Found this on my arm… I think something pulled me out. But I have bigger problems," he adds, watching Sam bury his face in Dean's neck.

"You ever lay one hand on that boy again…" Bobby begins, and Dean starts furiously. "Hey, calm down, you. I ain't sayin' you'd do him like that shifter did. I'm just sayin'… you're boys. You fight, you throw punches, use your fists instead of your words. You've been doin' it for years. It ain't the same as this, I know that. But it ain't like that anymore. You won't hurt him, I know that. Not on purpose. But that damn thing hurt him, and hurt him bad."

"He's afraid of me. I know that," Dean says.

"Do you know why?"

"'Cause something wearing my face fucking beat him for months!"

"There's more'n that. You talked to him much?"

"He won't say anything. Keeps apologizing over and over. I don't know what for."

"Maybe you ought to ask him," Bobby says.

"Do you know?"

"I do." There are a few seconds of silence. "Well, I ain't tellin' you! Your brother, you'd better find out your own damn self."

Bobby leaves them alone, to resolve their own problems.

"Sammy? You gonna tell me?"

"'M sorry," he says only.

"Hey, kiddo, look at me." Sam's big, teary eyes turn up to Dean's face. "It's all right. You know I love you no matter what."

"Yeah."

"I just want to know. Whatever you think… maybe I can make it better. Maybe it's nothing at all. What that thing did to you… Demons lie, Sammy. You know that."

"This was a shapeshifter," Sam points out, and Dean laughs until his stomach hurts. That's his Sammy.

"Still."

"I… It told me the truth about… I can't. Dean, I can't tell you." He's crying freely now. "I'm sorry. Please, don't be mad…"

"It's okay," Dean assures him. "It's fine. I'm not angry. Sam, listen. It doesn't matter what you did." He knows better than to try to assure his broken brother that the shifter had lied to him, especially since he doesn't know what horrible lies the thing told him. "It doesn't! It shouldn't have hurt you."

Sam just cries and pulls closer to Dean.

It's a while before Dean starts to feel desire flaring again, every time Sam comes close. As his scars from hell heal, as the bruises on Sam's face start to fade, he _wants._ It's like he has child-Sam again, needing him for every little thing. Sam won't eat unless Dean goes with him, won't go anywhere or do anything without his brother. Fear of losing him again, fear of some kind of punishment, Dean doesn't know. But he does everything Sam wordlessly asks for.

One night, as they lie together on the bed, Dean runs his hand under Sam's shirt, and kisses him. He's careful to be gentle, just moving his tongue into Sam's mouth. Sam freezes the instant he does, and Dean retreats.

"Sammy?"

"I'm sorry," Sam sobs, even more desperately than he has before. "Dean, you don't have to. You know that, right? Don't. I won't… just…"

"Kid, you gotta finish your sentences if you expect me to know what you're talking about."

"All those years ago. When… that's what he told me. What really happened… what I did to you… I'm so sorry…"

"What do you mean?" Dean honestly doesn't get it.

"Why didn't you just tell me? I wouldn't have made you. God, Dean. I wouldn't have left if you'd told me how much you needed me to stay. I never wanted you like this. Not against your will."

"I still don't have a damn clue what you're talking about."

"The shapeshifter told me. There's no use trying to be a martyr about it now. I know. I know why you let me. All these years! All this time, and I thought… you're a really good liar, you know that? Because I thought you wanted this to. I thought it wasn't just me that's a dirty freak. I thought you loved me like I love you. I didn't know. You have to believe that, Dean, I never would have done it if I'd known."

And in a sickening moment of clarity, the older Winchester brother puts two and two together and gets a strong desire to kill that damn shapeshifter. "You think… tell me if this is what you think." He swallows. "You think that I only had sex with you to stop you from leaving? That I never wanted you?"

Sam can't answer, except with a whimpering, "Sorry."

"It isn't true, Sam," Dean says quietly. "Listen. It's a lie. A blatant lie. I wanted you since you were eleven years old, kiddo. I loved you since the day you were born. As soon as I started wanting, I started wanting you." He lets a soft kiss drop onto Sam's lips. Completely chaste, but Sam still, predictably, freezes. "Sammy, baby. I know you might not believe me. I know he fooled you pretty well. I wasn't here to keep you safe… and that thing hurt you, hurt you bad. I don't expect you to believe me, but I'm just gonna keeps saying it until you believe me. You didn't do anything to me that I didn't want you to. Do you understand that? Hell, I thought for years I was a monster. What kind of sick bastard wants to fuck his kid brother? I hated myself until the day you told me you loved me. Besides, that was two whole years before you told me you were going to college. You were sixteen! What he told you… it doesn't even make sense."

He doesn't expect an answer, and he doesn't get one. Just holds his crying brother close, brushes the tears off his face and kisses the trails they leave.

It's weeks before Sam will look at Dean's face. Months before he can go out by himself for coffee.

The angels come, tell Dean they have work for him. He tells them to go fuck themselves, in no uncertain terms. So they find another vessel. He barely notices, entranced by the small daily struggles… Sammy looked into my eyes. Sammy said my name. Sammy got dressed without my help.

Someday, Sammy's going to be all right.

It won't be soon. Sometimes he thinks the apocalypse would be easier than this constant, agonizing struggle. But then Sam will almost-smile. Not that blinding grin Dean remembers, with the teeth flashing bright against his skin, but it's something. It helps Dean remember what he's fighting for. That it's Sammy, in there somewhere, broken and afraid, hating himself for the most beautiful gift anyone's ever given Dean. That his little brother needs him to be strong, to keep going day-by-day.

That's the kind of strength Dean has. It was forged young in him, when there wasn't enough to eat and they had to make it a few more days, a few more days, just a few more days until Dad would be home. Every time, he managed. Every time, he got through without Sammy going hungry. If he himself didn't have quite enough to eat, he managed.

Years later, he got stronger. Strong enough to know, to trust himself to resist the temptation in his own brother's wide, sweet eyes.

And after that, stronger still. Strong enough to keep breathing with Sammy gone.

Now all those years of trial-by-fire are coming to a head. He thinks sometimes, when Sam's crying at night, trying not to let him hear, that this is the fight he was born for. Not the hunt, not saving those people. This. Taking care of Sammy.

After a while, Sam believes him. It's a slow process. A year before Dean can touch his brother without Sam's eyes going wide and pleading. Three before they can do anything sexual. When Dean tries to make love to Sam, the younger Winchester freezes in obvious fear.

That's when Dean learns about the rape. That something wearing his face forced itself on his baby brother. He's gentle, then, like Sam's made of glass, takes care of him so carefully, watches as Sammy comes apart, shaking and sighing, "Dean," in his arms.

It's good. It's not perfect, but it never was. Their lives aren't meant for good, for safe.

This is as close as they can get. And even though Sam's still afraid, it's all right. It's more than enough.

The old nicknames are gone, because Sam starts to cry every time he hears the word "bitch." They don't wrestle playfully like they used to, that's an obvious one. They never look away from one another during a hunt, and Sam can't bear to look at any part of Dean except his eyes during sex.

It's not quite what it used to be. But it's something. It's as close to happiness as either of them has ever known.


	2. This Time Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Author's Note: This was supposed to be a one-shot. However, someone requested a continuation, so I wrote it. :D I'd love some feedback on this, and if anyone would like to see another one-shot in this verse, just ask, and ye (maybe) shall receive!**

**Author's Note: This was supposed to be a one-shot. However, someone requested a continuation, so I wrote it. :D I'd love some feedback on this, and if anyone would like to see another one-shot in this verse, just ask, and ye (maybe) shall receive!**

Six years. It takes Dean six damn years to track the thing down. He knew that the stab wound hadn't killed the shifter, knew from the moment Sam had kicked the thing down and Dean had thrust the knife into its leg. He knew the shifter had made it, but he'd had more important things to worry about.  
Things like that moment when Sam looked up at him, with his eyes huge and bright, and didn't meet his concerned glance. Things like the blood trickling casually down Sammy's face and the months' worth of untreated bruises and tiny little lacerations all over his nose and cheeks.  
After a year, he suggested hunting again, and Sam was so scared, but he didn't say no. He never says no anymore. Dean has to know, to be able to tell, when he means it.  
He does it. It's not easy, because he never knows if he's hurting Sam even more, if he's done something wrong. But he does his best. So far, he hasn't fucked it up. Hasn't hurt his baby brother any more than Sam's already been hurt. He doesn't touch Sam, no more than necessary and never like that. He knows his brother couldn't stop him, and he knows he won't break the one promise he made himself when he put a name to what he thought of then, and even sometimes now, as his sickness. The one thing that stopped him from shooting himself the moment he realized he wanted to fuck his baby brother is the absolute certainty he has that he could never, never touch Sam. Not unless Sam wanted him to.  
So he keeps his horny, lonely hands to himself and tries to content himself with helping Sam. That's all he wants from life. There are more important things than selfish desires, and he controlled them for years anyway.  
The urge to hunt, to stop the evil that's everywhere, is harder for Dean to repress. This urge that he's had for so long, implanted in him when he was a child. It's a half memory, a gruff, quiet voice. "Son. There are bad things out there, and we gotta kill them. We gotta save people."  
There's only one memory, one order, that goes back further and deeper than that. And it's three little words. "Look after Sammy."  
Dean will. He couldn't, while he was in Hell. He… God, he failed Sam. The most hideous, forbidden thing. He let something hurt Sam. Something supernatural, something wearing Dean's face.  
If Sammy didn't need him, he thinks the guilt would devour him. But he has more important things to worry about than his own feelings—loneliness, or lust, or anything else. He only cares about fixing his brother. After that, he can start saving the world again. After he's looked after Sammy.  
They start hunting a few weeks after that. Sam goes with him, helps with research and talking to witnesses. He's so shy these days, so horribly, terribly shy. It gets him even more of the girls than it had before. They all want to know what's wrong with this beautiful man, they want to fix him. It's some kind of mothering instinct that Dean supposes he has to, but tries not to think about too much. They have enough issues without adding the mommy ones into the picture.  
Of course, Sam doesn't flirt. He never did, and now it's worse. He can barely make eye contact with the girls. Dean doesn't look twice at them, now. Doesn't let his eyes wander like he always used to, over any stranger's body, male or female. He used to like the rise it could get out of Sammy, but now… he'd never do anything, anything to hurt Sam intentionally. The very thought makes agony and nausea flare in his gut. Never again. No matter how casually. No more teasing, no more sparring, no more jealousy.  
When (he won't think if) when Sam gets better, when they have sex again, he'll be so gentle, so careful. No roughness, no pain-that-turns-to-pleasure.  
He'll never let Sam get hurt. Never again.  
"Don't you worry," he tells Sam quietly as they walk into the room where the ghost should be tonight at precisely 10:41. "I'll take care of you, Sammy."  
Sam looks down and nods to Dean's shoes. Dean gently, so very gently, runs a fingertip across Sam's cheek. Sammy shudders under the careful touch and Dean lets his hand fall. "Sorry."  
"'s okay," Sam says. So much guilt, all the time. Not just for what he's done to Dean. What he's made Dean do. But for how, now, Dean so obviously feels bad for something, feels like he owes Sam this, when Sam's the one who's fucking broken just from the punishment he deserved.  
Dean wants to kiss away the pain but he can't. He knows that would only make it worse.  
The hunt goes well. Sam's the one who shoots the ghost, while Dean burns it.  
They get back into the swing of things after that. Four years later, when Sam is lying in his brother's arms, eyes closed, Dean whispers, "Sam, I want to go after that thing that hurt you." He feels Sam's body tense, and this time he can soothe the fear with the touch of his lips to Sammy's shoulder. He's grateful for that, more than for the pleasure they can once again share. Being able to comfort Sam is more important.  
"Dean," Sam sighs, relaxing into the touch, but still worried. He can't see that thing again, can't face it. No matter what it looks like, he just… can't. Even though he knows that it's important to Dean, he can't. So selfish, that voice in the back of his head whispers.  
"You don't have to come with me, baby."  
"What if you get hurt?" Sam knows his voice sounds childish. But he knows that if Dean gets injured, or worse, in the pursuit of this thing, that Sam will never forgive himself. And he knows he can't live without Dean, especially not now, after everything.  
"If you don't want me to, I won't, Sammy." Sam is more important than any kind of revenge. "But I don't… I feel like… Sam, if I kill it, if it's gone, then… then it can't hurt you anymore. I know you're safe. We'd plan it out ahead of time, really carefully. Okay? I'll be safe. I promise. If you let me do this."  
They both know how important it is for Sam that he's the one in control. He makes the decisions. He's healed enough, now, that he can say no, and it means so much that Dean always, always gives him the option to. It almost lets him forget saying it, screaming it, over and over again, pinned to the bed, under Dean's hands and hips and hatred.  
"O…okay." He takes a deep breath. "But only if I can go with you."  
It isn't easy to say. He's afraid that the thing will hurt him again. He's afraid that even seeing it will send him back to that dark, terrible place he was in when Dean had first come back from Hell. He's afraid that it will kill Dean, while he watches, and he won't be able to save his brother, even though Dean's saved him so many times. He's afraid that it will come to a showdown again and this time he'll stop the wrong Dean, that he'll hurt his brother instead of the monster with his face.  
But this thing hurt him. And Sam, the Sam from before, is still in there somewhere, and he knows how important revenge is. It's what's given his whole life shape, from the time he was six months old. He understands Dean's need. He'll go with his brother, and together they'll stop the thing.  
It's the best-planned hunt they've ever been on. Between cases, they track the thing. It's obvious that it's the same one. It has a pattern. It finds people who've lost loved ones and takes the shape of the dead beloved, then slowly, thoroughly destroys their life. They kill themselves after months, even years, of abuse. It's easy to track, because they're always happy couples, obnoxiously in love, before the shifter takes the place of one of them. Also, when dead spouses come back to life, there's usually at least a newspaper article.  
They know exactly where the thing will be. There's a young woman named Kara Evans in Minnesota. Six years after Sam got away from the thing, she lost her husband in a car accident. And woke up next to him the next morning.  
She's been hospitalized twice since then.  
They are prepared for what they see, but still, Dean's stomach turns when he sees the girl pinned to the wall, sobbing and whispering, "I'm so sorry, Andy, please. I didn't mean to, I'm so, so sorry."  
Sam clenches his fists hard enough that his nails bite into his skin and begins to wonder if maybe, just maybe, Dean's telling the truth. If the thing was lying all along, if he never hurt his brother.  
He wants it to be true so much it stings like the pain of fingernails in flesh.  
"Get down!" Dean hisses, but the woman remains pinned, motionless, as he draws his knife. Dean sighs and lunges forward.  
He doesn't stab it through the heart to kill it, but drives the blade through its leg, matching the wound he'd made last time he encountered this.  
Of all the things he's ever killed, this one is the most terrible monster. Kara is screaming, "No, please, no, don't hurt him! Please!"  
"This isn't him," Sam says quietly. "It's not your husband. Andy never would have hurt you."  
Her eyes widen. And then she looks angry. "How do you know?"  
"The same thing did the same thing to me, Kara. Dressed up in my… with Dean's shape. Hurt me."  
Dean is standing over the thing, knife in hand. "I'm going to kill you," Dean breathes, kneeling over its chest, "so fucking slowly."  
Andy Evans' body smiles, slow and gruesome. "Why?"  
"You hurt Sam," Dean says, simply, calmly. It's how the world works. Something hurts Sam, and Dean kills it. Nice and slow, savoring every scream. He looks to his brother. "Sammy, you want to get the victim outta here? I'll kill this thing."  
"Sure." Sam pulls the girl away from where she's standing. She won't move, so he picks her up. She's sobbing. "Who can I call for you, Kara?"  
"My… my friend. Steve. J…just a friend, I swear!" She starts to cry hysterically again.  
"What's his number?" It's remarkably soothing to be back in his role as the hunter, the protector. Not the victim as he's been for so long.  
"I… Andy had me delete it… b…but it's… I know it."  
Sam coaxes the digits from her and plugs them into his cell phone.  
"Hello?" comes over the line.  
"Hi. My name is Sam Winchester. I'm at the Evans' house with Kara. Can you come pick her up?"  
The voice on the other end panics. "Is she all right?"  
"She's fine, physically."  
"I'm on my way." Sam hears the jangle of keys being lifted and muffled swearing as the man on the other end rifles through his stuff, looking for shoes. Finally, he says, "Fuck it, I'll go barefoot," and gives up. Steve stays on the line, the whole way there. "What's going on?"  
"Andy's dead. There was something that took his… that imitated him to hurt Kara. The same thing had happened to me, and my brother and I were looking for it. He's taking care of the thing that looked like Andy."  
"By taking care of you mean…"  
"He'll be dead by the time you get here." Kara gives a panicked sob at those words, and Steve gasps.  
"She's there? Can I talk to her?  
"Yeah. You haven't…"  
"Andy thought… thought we were… I was…"  
Sam says, softly, "Oh," and hands the phone to Kara.  
She whispers, "Steve? God, I missed you."  
"No, I'm fine."  
"It's all my fault, anyway. I'm not…"  
"Steve, don't say stuff like that about him!"  
"I'm sorry. Wait!"  
That's when the wheels screech up the drive. It's a midsized SUV, green, battered, and Steve tumbles out. He looks world-wearied, shadows beneath his eyes. He's tall, thin, dark-skinned, with cornrows and a soft smile for his friend.  
"Kara," he whispers. "C'mere." His arms open, and she stumbles towards him, wrapping her arms around his neck and sobbing softly.  
Sam watches, awed. This tenderness, this love? What Dean gives him? Is that what he deserves? He doesn't hate the woman, this stranger. He knows she's been hurt by the shapeshifter, that it was all lies, and yet she seems to hate herself as much as he hates himself. Maybe Dean's right. Maybe Sam doesn't deserve any of this.  
His brother emerges from the house, blood dripping from his hands, stains on his clothes. "It's done," Dean says softly, blinking away the shadows behind his eyes. "It's dead."  
"Thank you," Steve answers him, his arm over Kara's shoulders. He's speaking for her as she closes her eyes and sobs into his shirt.  
Dean blinks back tears as he realizes that it can't have been as bad as it was for Sam. His brother couldn't bear to touch him, wouldn't accept comfort, for months after. Then again, the thing wasn't wearing Steve's fucking face. "Are you okay? To go with him?"  
She nods. "I've got her," he adds clearly. The subtext is all-too-clear. 'She's safe with me.'  
Dean smiles over at Sam and nods. "All right. Why don't you go?"  
"Yeah. Thank you two, so much. She can't…"  
"I understand," Dean whispers. "I really do. And good luck, man. You've got some hard times ahead of you."  
Sam's eyes drop, ashamed, and Dean feels a little twist of shame in his gut. He knows his brother feels guilty for his dependence on Dean, but Dean doesn't mind, not at all. He loves being able to help Sam. He loves Sam more than anything.  
"It'll be worth it, though," he adds, and Sam looks up slowly.  
Dean takes his hand and they walk back to the car like that. It's a silent drive back to their motel, except for the blaring of Dean's music.  
As they walk upstairs, Dean says, "Did that help at all? Do you feel better?"  
"Do you?"  
"Yeah," he admits.  
"Then it's worth it, De." He bites his lip, hesitating. "You're allowed to want things too, you know. What happened wasn't your fault."  
"Right. 'Cause it wasn't me who did it. I would never think that way about you, Sammy. Never do those things to you. It was a hunt that you got hurt on, hurt worse than ever before, but just another hunt gone wrong. Can you think of it like that? You didn't deserve it, Sam. It wasn't me."  
Sam blinks away tears, turning down to face Dean and whispers, "I believe you." His voice cracks once, but he bends down and presses his lips to his brother's. They've kissed, they're having sex once in a while, but it's the first time Sam has made any move on Dean since the shapeshifter took his brother's form. Out of fear, out of the belief that he would have been manipulating Dean into a sexual relationship, he's not completely sure. He just knows that it doesn't make sense, that he shouldn't get stuck in that victim's mentality.  
What he needs now isn't to cling to the past, to let it keep hurting him now that the monster is dead. What he needs is to accept the unguarded, unconditional love of the beautiful man standing here, staring up at him with glorious delight after one simple kiss.  
"Sammy?" Dean manages, his voice thick.  
"I believe you," the younger Winchester repeats, squeezing Dean's fingers in his and bending down to steal another kiss, whispering the only three words more perfect to Dean's ears against his brother's lips.  
"I love you."  
"You too. You believe that too?" Dean asks, tentatively.  
"Yeah."  
Dean pulls Sam against his chest, keeps him there, listens to his brother cry for a little while. When Sam's tears stop, he feels it may be for good.


End file.
